Like Lila's Home
by DebbieB
Summary: During the quarantine, Tracy takes a breather from watching over Dillon's bedside. A missing scene story from the February 13, 2006, episode.


A/N: I wanted to write a missing scene from Monday's episode. I realize these scenes would never make it onto the show, because, well, Tracy is not the center of attention. But she's my favorite character, and I can choose to write as many stories about her as I want to. And until TPTB give me satisfaction, I'll just keep pouring out the fanfic when necessary.

She holds her son's hand and smiles. Every fiber of her being, every ounce of reason in her screams that this is wrong. That his decision to marry Georgie is the biggest mistake of Dillon's very young life.

But she forces a smile. She trains her expression to hide what she feels because her youngest son is sick, terribly sick. Because people have died from what he has, and there's no end in sight. No hope in sight, she feels, and kills the thought as it forms, nebulous, in her brain.

_My baby is going to die. _

She wills herself to focus, to smile like she's never smiled before, to be the strongest, bravest, most honest and loving mother she has the power to be. It's not much, she realizes. She knows her limitations, and motherhood is not one of her strengths. But family love is, and she calls on fifty-some odd years of experience, on the generations of Quartermaines echoing through her veins, on every memory she has of family strength and unity. She rallies the energy within her, pouring it into her son, her Dillon, as if the power of the Quartermaine line is enough to sustain life itself.

"I can accept that you are about to marry so far beneath your station, you're gonna get the bends.": She presses her hand to his chest as his laughter turns into a labored cough. "But I will not accept…" she pauses, because her voice feels like razors against her throat. "That you're going to die."

She watches him, and for a split second, time unravels. He's two years old, and the nanny has quit. Her baby is two years old, and Paul is long gone. Dillon's forehead is hot, his skin is burning up, and he won't stop crying. She's called her mother, long distance, but there's no answer at home. Her baby is on fire with fever, but she can't find his thermometer. She kisses his forehead, like Lila used to do, but she can't be sure, and he won't stop crying…

Time weaves itself back together, and she's herself again. Dillon is grown. Dillon is getting married. Dillon is not going to die.

Her entire body stiffens, and she turns to go. "I'll be back," she says, harsh monosyllables her only defense against the panic that grips her, that drives her from her child's sickbed.

She pushes through the hallways, past the harried orderlies and nurses and doctors, past the gurneys and wheelchairs. The sick and the dying stare at her as she hurries past. Some reach out, trying to catch her eyes, trying to touch her hand in desperate gestures of helplessness.

She doesn't know where she's going. She wants to run, towards the exit, towards the airport. It's what she's always done before. But she's not brave enough to cross a SWAT team, so she begins opening doors, randomly, until she finds an empty room.

The nurses' break room looks like it should have cobwebs forming in the corners. She wonders when anybody last took an actual break.

The emptiness calms her. She can't remember the last time she'd been completely alone. The lack of bodies, the lack of voices and tears and terror is like a blanket around her, and she burrows into the silence gratefully.

There's a payphone against the wall. It's an anachronism in this cell phone age, and she finds herself inexplicably drawn to it. Someone's put a change dish next to it; it's full of quarters.

She grabs two quarters and drops them into the slot. Her fingers are dialing instinctively the number she's always called when the panic struck, the number that's always worked.

The phone rings off the hook at the Quartermaine mansion. There's no one there to answer. Most of the house's residents are here, in quarantine. Edward is god knows where, checking in with Alan by phone daily, but staying safely away from the danger zone.

And Lila…

Tracy hangs up the phone as it hits her, hard in the gut, that Lila is not going to answer the phone. Lila is not there to make things better. Lila is not there to hold the universe together anymore.

Her back is to the wall, and she slides down until she's sitting on the floor, her face wet with tears. She pulls her knees to her, burying her face in her arms as she cries. She cannot remember if she's crying for her mother's death or her son's sickness. The two become one in her mind, and the long, painful months between then and now seems like moments to her.

She's so tired. Tracy can't remember ever being this tired, not even during childbirth. Her muscles ache, heavy and stiff from the catnaps in uncomfortable chairs and the pacing she's done. Her clothes are hideous…she plans on burning this outfit the minute she gets out of here. She's managed to clean up in the ladies room, but what she wants is a three-month soak in a whirlpool bath, with scented oils and bottomless champagne glasses.

There's a hand on her shoulder, and she starts, angry at the violation of her privacy, of her tears.

It's Bobbie Spencer, looking down at her, looking like hell, looking worried.

Tracy feels the anger, the rage welling up inside of her, searing through her veins. She doesn't want Bobbie's pity. She doesn't want Bobbie's help. She cringes as Bobbie reaches down to feel her forehead, gently with her full palm, the way Lila used to do.

"I don't have the virus," she snaps. Bobbie's eyes are patient._The woman just lost the love of her life, and she's wasting compassion on me_, she thinks, hating Bobbie for her generosity. These damned Spencers were notorious for muddying up the waters with kindness, making it almost impossible to hate them outright. "I just needed…" Her voice catches in her throat as Bobbie nods. Bobbie knows exactly what she needs, and knows she'll never have it again in this lifetime. "I just needed to use the phone," she finishes in a dull voice.

To her credit, Bobbie doesn't push. She simply reaches out a hand to help Tracy to her feet. "Cell reception in this place is wonky," she says, as if either of them is buying the excuse. "How's Dillon?"

"Getting married," Tracy blurts, and immediately regrets it. It's going to get out soon enough, she knows, and she wants to savor each delicious moment of denial with everything in her.

"You gave your consent?" Bobbie looks astonished, but she keeps her tone neutral.

"He doesn't _need_my consent," she snarls, then adds tiredly, "But, yeah, I guess I did."

"He's a good kid."

"He's a baby," Tracy corrects, brushing off the backside of her slacks.

"Aren't they all?" Bobbie gestures to the kitchenette, adding, "Are you hungry? We had a birthday party here a few days back, and I think there's still some ice cream stashed in the freezer."

"Ice cream in February?" But she follows the woman to the refrigerator, lingering a few steps behind, watching in fascination as Bobbie does that thing Bobbie does, that taking control and fixing things thing.

"Any port in a storm, I say." She's already digging in the freezer, pulling out cardboard boxes of cheap linguini and chicken a la king. "Ha! Tin Roof Sundae, and it's about half full." She smiles at Tracy, her tired eyes catching that mischievous glint that all the Spencers seemed to get. "Technically, you're family, so I'm obligated by law to share."

"What law?" But she nods, and takes the bowls Bobbie has pulled out of the cabinet and puts them on the counter. "Where are the spoons?"

"Second drawer on the left." Bobbie's already opened the ice cream box, and is digging through another drawer for a scoop. "When's, um, the wedding?"

Tracy rolls her eyes. "As soon as they can track down the priest."

"Have you told Luke?"

"I haven't _seen_Luke," she admits, leaning forward on both hands to rest against the counter. "I think he's been avoiding me."

Bobbie puts down the scoop, and places a single hand over her sister-in-law's. "He's feeling terribly guilty right now. I…I don't know if he can face you."

"Well, that's just…" She wants to say stupid, but the word sweet keeps trying to escape. It's not sweet. She's gotten used to having the guy around, and she's tired and wants somebody on her side for a change. "Dillon misses him," is all she manages to say.

"He is just crazy about him, you know. Everybody is…Luke, Lucas, we all just adore Dillon."

Tracy takes the scoop and finishes loading up the bowls. "No," she says, "He wasn't switched at childbirth." They laugh, just a little, and then it's gone. In a heartbeat, they're tired again, they're terrified again, they're each grieving in their own private way.

Bobbie takes the bowls to the table. It's an ugly thing that looks more like cheap wall paneling than furniture, but it's clean and uncrowded. Tracy sits across from her, gingerly tasting the ice cream.

"Let me guess," Bobbie says in a teasing tone. "You only eat organic French sorbet?"

Tracy rolls her eyes. "Actually, no…"

"What?"

She wants to leave, but something is holding her there, with this woman she barely tolerates, this up-by-her-own-bootstraps person with the nauseatingly positive outlook on life and the relentlessly perky personality. "My mother…" She hesitates, but finds that she actually wants to continue. "My mother used to make rose petal ice cream."

Bobbie blinks twice. "Excuse me?"

"She found the recipe in a magazine, ages ago, when I was just a girl. She always wanted me to help her in her rose garden, and I just loathed the idea. Dirt and bugs and sweat--not exactly my thing, especially back then. So when she found this recipe, oh, I had to be maybe thirteen or fourteen, she decided to use it to bribe me. It was just exotic enough to tempt me, and I worked all spring long in that damned rose garden just so my mother would eventually make me rose petal ice cream."

"Was it any good?"

"It was exquisite. We made it together, on an old crank ice cream maker my grandfather had given her. We even made sugared rose petals for garnish." Tracy finds that she is smiling. Bobbie is smiling, too, but Tracy can tolerate it just this once.

"You know, I can't tell you how many times I've turned a corner in this hospital and expected to see Lila coming down the hall," Bobbie says wistfully. "I miss her so much. She was always so…"

"Yeah," Tracy whispers. "She was."

"You know, I just get the feeling that if only she were here, everything would be better." Bobbie's eyes shimmer with unshed tears. "At least, I know I'd feel better."

"Daddy wouldn't let her within five hundred miles of this quarantine."

"Like he could stop her," Bobbie says, and they both laugh, because they know it's true. Lila Quartermaine was never one to let her husband boss her around.

Her ice cream is almost gone when Tracy spies an industrial type coffee maker in the corner of the room. "Does that thing work?"

"Uh-hmmm…" Bobbie is toying with her melting ice cream. After a moment, she gives Tracy a laugh. "I've been on my feet for the last, oh, three centuries. You want coffee, Princess, make it yourself."

Tracy frowns, but goes to the coffee maker. "Uh, not to sound like a spoiled debutante, but how does this thing work?"

"Coffee's in the cabinet on top. So are the filters. Pull that black handle and put a filter in the tray. Then put one scoop of coffee in the filter, push the handle back in place, and press 'Brew.'" She takes another bite of ice cream and adds, "Easy."

"So easy a Quartermaine could do it," Tracy says in an overly cheery tone as she begins to prepare the coffee. That's what she can do, the way she can make things normal again. Self-deprecating, acerbic humor.

"Exactly."

When she's done, and she's grabbed the box of ice cream to bring to the table, she sits down and scoops up another serving. Bobbie grins, and Tracy points out, "Well, it's better than the stuff they're serving in the coffee shop."

"Absolutely."

They eat in silence for a moment, taking in the scent of strong coffee brewing. Then Tracy says, "They're making such a big mistake."

"Of course they are," Bobbie says. "They're kids. We made mistakes just as big when we were their age."

"When I was Dillon's age…oh, dear god," she says. "I was married."

Bobbie grins and nods. "We can't keep them from making their own mistakes, as much as we sometimes want to just pull them in close and protect them from the world."

"Funny, I was under the impression you thought I_ate_ my young." She isn't angry, really, but the sense of camaraderie with Bobbie Spencer is just too weird. "What was it you said? You were going to 'bitch-slap' me all the way to the Canadian border?"

"Hey, you picked on my kid. What would you have done if I'd attacked Dillon?"

Tracy stays quiet, but they both know it would be much worse than a bitch slap. Tracy doesn't have a reputation for nothing. She takes another bite of the ice cream. "This is actually really good," she admits.

"Not_rose petal_ice cream, but it works in a pinch." She is teasing again, and Tracy finds that, personal history aside, she kind of enjoys Bobbie's company. "Actually, it's Luke's favorite. Did you know that?"

"How on earth would I know that? Wait, I know, it's the kind of thing you know about your husband and children. Let me guess--you know all those tedious little details about Lucas--his favorite color, his favorite movie, his birthday…"

"Yeah, I know his shoe size, but the fact that he's gay_completely_ eludes me." Bobbie's tone is light, but there's a tinge of self-disgust in her voice.

"You can't know everything about them."

After another long silence, Bobbie says, "Do you…want me to talk to Luke? I think he'd want to be at the wedding."

"I'm still praying they'll come to their senses."

"And if they don't?"

She takes in a deep breath. She promised Dillon she wouldn't stand in his way, and she wants to keep that promise. She wants to be a mother he can trust, but it's so hard when she_knows_ what a mistake this wedding is. "Then…I'll do what I always do with my daughters-in-law."

"Make her life a living hell?"

Tracy grins. "Well, every family has its traditions."

"Poor Georgie," Bobbie says, then groans as she's paged on the hospital loudspeaker. "I was hoping they'd forget I'm here." She stands, starting to pick up her bowl, but Tracy stops her.

"I'll get those. You go ahead."

Bobbie hesitates, then pats Tracy on the shoulder. "Dillon and Georgie will be fine. You just have to trust him to make the right decision."

"Yeah, let's hear you say that the first time Lucas brings home a drag queen as his date for Thanksgiving dinner."

Bobbie closes her eyes for a moment, then shakes her head. "See you," she says, and then she's gone.

Tracy waits until the door has closed, and takes the last bite of her ice cream. The coffee has just finished brewing, and it smells like home. Like the home she remembers, like Lila's home. She won't drink too much, because the last thing she needs is caffeine making her skittish.

But she will drink a cup, and pretend that her mother is there, that she's the one who just gave her the good advise. And when she's done, she'll go back to the room, and help her son make the biggest mistake of his life.

Because that's what mothers are supposed to do.

The End


End file.
